


Perscriptions

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Gormenghast (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by marshalmeg</p><p>Knowledge is perhaps the only tool, cleverness stems from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perscriptions

**Author's Note:**

> I starting writing this at 11 pm on December 24 and hope you like it. I was very happy to see it as a stocking stuffer request because I was in the mood to write something like it. Thank you for the request because I had fun writing it.
> 
> Written for Ravenbell

 

 

-Perscriptions-  
Fandom: Gormenghast (tv)

Steerpike sits at the desk in Doctor Punesquallor's study. Both the doctor and his sister have gone out for the day. They asked him if he would like to come along but he declined, siting too much unfinished work as the reason. The doctor likes reasons like that, commenting to his sister that Steerpike was as ambitious and industrious as ever with Irma confirming that he was also as much several other things as ever. Irma notices different things about people than her brother, especially if the people in question are male.

At first, Steerpike had found that amusing. One doesn't get much attention of that sort when one spends ones days in a hot kitchen with little sunlight and less fresh air. With Irma, it was so unwanted to render her flirtatious attempts ludicrous. There are few things that make Steerpike laugh and the majority of them are not found humorous by anyone else. He notes that women are silly creatures. This has been his experience with them. Both sexes can be manipulated, but there is a particular route that can be taken with women that makes it simpler.

He has written this observation in even greater detail in his large book of observations. He does not keep the book in an actual book, but he finds that he can thumb through it in the less tangible realm of thought and memory. It is safer that way. It has a black leather cover and a lock with a wide red ribbon sew in as a page marker. He used to imagine owning a big blank book like that, owning anything that was new and lovely and his.

'There would not have been anything worthwhile to write in it,' he reminds himself. 'And it would have gotten me into unnecessary trouble eventually.'

Now was not the time for reflection. No, this was the time for work, important work. There was always work for someone serving the doctor and as a result there was very little time for the more important work, the real work. That had to be saved for the times when Prunesquallor was out seeing patients and during those times it was often interrupted by sly winks and smiles from the idle Irma. It was very rarely that he had the house to himself. Those rare chances were opportunities to be savored, like the occasional scraps of dishes intended for the earl and his family that could be snatched from plates from which they would not be noticed or that fell between cracks or onto counters.

Steerpike drums his long, thin fingers against the highly polished wood, stained here and there with ink and drops from medicine bottles. Before him sits a stack of neatly labeled folders. He opens the top one and begins flipping through the papers contained therein.

He finds the doctor's house fascinating, almost as fascinating as he found his suit of pale grey when it was first presented by Irma in a white box tied with a bow.

"A presentation which a fortunate wretch such as myself does not deserve and is therefore uncommonly grateful for, madam."

Irma had put her hand to her breast at that and looked for several minutes to be in dire need of a fan, though it would have been impossible to find one to match her dress even if one looked through all of the moldy rooms filled to the ceilings with thousands upon thousands of the most random and assorted objects the made up the castle.

He had spent several hours simply examining it, tracing the lines of the stitching, looking in the pockets, marveling at the novelty of a coat with lining. Then he had put it on and found that he liked how he looked in something that was not kitchen rags. He liked it very much indeed.

The rest of the house had proved even more fascinating. Better than the blown glass bottles, the china painted with pink and blue flowers, the multi-colored napkins, the chipped tables shaped like elephants, carpets on top of carpets, tarnished silver, ink pens and ink wells with thin layers of dried ink at the bottom... better than all of that... was the information. The castle was a larger place than he had ever imagined, and the doctor knew it as a great mass of prescriptions.

At first, Steerpike had been simply a servant and obligated to stand straight against the wall of the dining room while the doctor and his sister had their dinner, but he made himself familiar and reminded them of his talent for conversation and soon found himself invited to sit. He was becoming more of an assistant than a servant. It suited him and it showed either a glimmer of intellect in Prunesquallor or a fine natural ability in Steerpike. He knew the guards now by their gout and their bad teeth. There was a maid with a bad back and one foot with six toes that made certain types of shoes very painful. One man whose job was to keep the many leaks in the roofs in check was blind in one eye; a goatherd lost a finger to a goat. Village women with headaches, carpenters with painful knees, children who faked illness to get out of class, all of these bits of information regarding the castle and its inhabitants found its way into Steerpike's collection of information, waiting for the day when it might prove to be of use. While the Prunesquallor's sipped their soup he absorbed like a loaf of stale bread or a pot scrubbing sponge.

More important still were the tonics administered to Lady Fuschia and their contents, the Earl's pills and serums, the suggestions dismissed by Lady Gertrude as quackery. The doctor was more prudent with these details, but written notes are incapable of discretion. They simply are.

The corners of Steerpike's lips curl into a smirk as he takes advantage of this fact. He has learned to decipher the doctor's handwriting with minimal effort, but this one was kept by the previous doctor and details the health of the previous earl and some members of his family. Steerpike has learned the importance of family medical histories.

The bookshelves in the house are filled with medical texts and he reads them whenever he has a spare moments. Most of his nights are spent mending Irma's dresses or the doctor's shirts with one eye on some anatomical diagram or extensive case study. It is necessary. Knowledge is perhaps the only tool, cleverness stems from it. Steerpike likes how that sounds and tucks it away for a day when he might write something idealized to chronicle the achievement of a desired ultimate conclusion.

A couple of hours pass and he is about to be forced to light a candle. Instead, he tucks the papers neatly into their places. It is nearly dinner time and the master and mistress of the house deserve a little something for all of the assistance they are unknowingly providing. If he learned anything in the kitchens, it was how to cook.

There is some gratification in it. Steerpike isn't sure he wants to admit to that. No, he does not. It is there just the same.

 


End file.
